


Master of Makashi

by silvergryphon



Series: Black and Gold Verse [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, lightsaber forms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 04:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10823424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvergryphon/pseuds/silvergryphon
Summary: Naroko's meditations are interrupted by three Jedi Masters, all of whom have firm ideas on what more she could be learning.Or"Master Rinar, you're a saurian. Maybe you should leave the teaching of lightsaber combat to someone who actually shares a body plan with your human apprentice."





	Master of Makashi

 

                Naroko liked this kind of meditation.

                It wasn’t the sitting still and thinking of nothing sort. Oh, she could do that kind of meditation, but it was difficult. She wanted to be up and about and doing things, even as much as she liked the soft, gentle peace that came from turning inwards and opening up to the Force. It was difficult to get there, difficult to remain still and empty. She was almost _never_ empty. Her awareness was always full of things internal and external. Her body. Her feelings. Her thoughts. The feelings of those around her. An acute awareness of when others needed the aid she could bring. The world around Naroko was a bustle of minds and bodies and _people_ and she was linked in with all of it.

                Being empty, being apart from it all, with nothing to keep her mind from chasing after every stray thought that wandered through?

                That was foreign, and strange, and did not come naturally.

                At sixteen, she’d been Rinar’s Padawan for almost five years, and the Krrisshk Jedi had finally hit upon an idea to help. She’d admitted some chagrin at not having thought of it sooner, when she saw how well it worked.

                Rinar put a weapon in the hands of a young healer, told her to move, and _there_ , there was the peace and mental stillness she’d struggled so hard to find.

                Naroko’s lightsaber hummed as she went from stance to stance, sliding from a slowed-down strike to an equally slowed block, moving like water. She’d performed these katas scores, hundreds of times. Each nerve and muscle knew the positions so well she didn’t need to think about them. But the activity kept her focused, kept her mind from wandering off after every little thing.

                Inside there was focus, and peace, and she could touch the Force fully. It flowed around her like warm water, as welcoming and comforting as a warm bath, filling her with its light. She felt it, tasted it, warm silk sliding over her skin, warm spices on her tongue, cinna and cardom and vannilan, sweet as honey and just as golden, golden as the lightsaber humming in her hand. She breathed it in, savored it, let it sink into her very bones.

                She let thoughts drift past her mind, clinging to none as they flowed past. Master Rinar was a soft glow nearby, as the saurian Jedi sat basking in a patch of sunlight.  She was, as always, a pillar of solid strength in Naroko’s mind, like the great trees that many religions said wound through planes of the universe, its roots solidly planted in the underworlds, its branches reaching up to support the heavens.

                Rinar was safety. Guidance. Support. Strength.

                She was also not alone.

                Naroko roused slightly from her moving meditation at the approach of two bright stars. One she knew, and knew well.

                Qui-Gon Jinn felt like moss and pine trees, ever-growing, ever aware of here and now and enduring through it all, immovable in his roots but flexible, preferring to bend in the wind rather than resist and be shattered, but on his own terms. He would do things his way, and did not mind the consequences.

                He drove Obi-Wan just a little bit nuts, her friend had confided to her the last time she’d seen him. Obi-Wan, in his determination to be the Perfect Padawan, had developed a tendency to be a stickler for the rules, and Qui-Gon’s habit of merrily disregarding rules and the Council was more than a little distressing.

                “And here I remember when you used to be fun,” she’d teased him, making him blush and groan a little.

                The other Force Presence with Qui-Gon was not one she recognized. He felt like steel, tasted of wine, and carried himself with an aristocratic grace she didn’t even need to open her eyes to detect.

                Rinar’s presence rippled with warmth, and she hooted a greeting at the two newcomers even as she brushed her Padawan’s mind with a request for her to join them. Naroko finished her kata- slowly- and drew her mind back into her own body before opening her eyes.

                Yes, there was Master Qui-Gon, with his barely-tamed fall of graying brown hair and hawklike nose and warm grey eyes. For once, he did not tower over everyone in the room. The man beside him- older, dark hair liberally silvered now, who stood with the bearing of a king- was actually slightly taller than Qui-Gon.

                Naroko couldn’t remember ever running into a human taller than Qui-Gon Jinn.

                _Is he the one who taught Qui-Gon Ataru?_ she wondered. That was an almost chilling thought. Qui-Gon was a lot bigger than most Ataru fighters, and the sheer power he could bring into his acrobatic attacks was terrifying. Then she took a closer look at the new Master’s bearing and stance. _No. Not Ataru. Too rigid._

“Master Rinar.” The newcomer’s voice was a deep rumble, his accent Core-world cultured. Not Coruscanti, or not purely, but definitely Core.

Rinar trilled brightly and bobbed her head, her Force presence shimmering with warmth. “Yan,” she chirped. “Qui-Gon. Always a pleasure, my friends.” She swiveled her head on her long neck to look at her apprentice. “Padawan. You know Master Jinn, of course.”

Naroko smiled and bowed politely to Qui-Gon. “Of course.”

The Krrishhk bobbed her head. “But I do not believe you have met his mentor, Yan Dooku.”

She bowed again, earning her a stiff nod from Dooku. “I have not, Master,” she replied. So, this was Obi-Wan’s Grandmaster.

_How did someone like this produce a master like Qui-Gon?_

“This is my current Padawan, Naroko Chiston.” Rinar did not seem at all ruffled by how big the other two Masters were. They towered over her, far more than Naroko did.

Dooku’s dark eyes were fixed on Naroko, his gaze measuring. She fought the urge to fidget, to nervously finger the thin braid of black hair that fell down over her shoulder. She had three beads woven into it now, white and green and yellow, and found running her fingers over the braided strands to be rather soothing. She wasn’t the only one with the habit. Obi-Wan constantly fiddled with his braid, needing to reassure himself that he _was_ a Padawan and wasn’t going to wake up one day and find himself off with the AgriCorps. For her, in this moment, she felt disheveled and ruffled from her workout, and Dooku had the air of someone who disapproved of untidiness. Her braid was the one thing that remained tidy even during practice, and touching it would have been calming. But she forced herself to remain still.

“What form are you studying, Padawan Chiston?” he asked.

She straightened immediately. “Ataru, Master Dooku,” she replied.

He looked thoughtful, then glanced at Rinar. “Might I borrow your apprentice for a moment?”

“What are you up to, Master?” Qui-Gon eyed his former mentor sidelong.

“Teaching.”

Naroko suddenly felt rather nervous.

Beside her, Rinar hooted, the tone of it more than enough to tell Naroko she was quite amused even without feeling it. “Of course, old friend.” She reared up and patted Naroko’s shoulder. “Master Dooku is an exemplary swordsman, my dear. You can learn much from him.”

She eyed the tall man. “Yes, Master.”

In moments, Dooku had her in an entirely new stance. Feet apart, the back foot turned out as she settled her weight on it, blade out to her side, shoulders back and spine straight. With exacting care he walked her through the first series of movements in the new kata.

It felt odd, at first. She wasn't used to this, to holding her lightsaber so lightly, to making thrusts instead of slashes and tight little flicks instead of broader swings. Dooku's teaching method, on the other hand, was familiar. He had a way of barking brisk orders that reminded her of the sword-masters who taught the Initiates- "Shoulders _back_ , girl!" and "Weight on your _back_ foot!" rang in her ears along with the ever-familiar command of " _Again_."

Naroko bit her lip, narrowed her eyes, and did it _again_.

Slowly, her muscles became accustomed to this new way of moving. She found her balance, and when she did, it became much easier to make her feet follow the intricate steps of this new form. It became easy to imagine how this half of the kata would fit in with the half performed by an opponent, how parries would meet thrusts and strikes.

Dooku stood off to one side, stroking his graying beard thoughtfully. "Yes," he rumbled, glancing down at Rinar. "Makashi."

Her master chortled softly and trotted over, talons clicking on the floor. "I agree," she said. "I think you ought to study some Makashi as well."

The 'as well' part of her statement made Dooku scowl, but Qui-Gon smirked slightly. "Yes, as well," he said. "Ataru will be just as good for her. If just for coordination purposes."

Naroko blushed.  She was sixteen, and didn't seem to be anywhere near finished growing yet. Her hands and feet were still too big for the rest of her, puppy-like, and she hoped she'd stop tripping over them soon. Only when she was working on lightsaber forms did she feel anything like graceful.

"What say you, Padawan?"

She glanced over at her mentor and nodded. "I- this new style is interesting, Master," she said. "I'd like to learn more." Her dark eyes flicked back to Dooku. "If you would be willing to teach me, Master Dooku? Or could recommend another Makashi master who would be?"

That earned her another measuring look from Dooku and a slight snort from Qui-Gon. 

"It would be poor form of him to suggest you learn the style without being willing to teach you himself," Qui-Gon said wryly.

Dooku scowled at his former apprentice before turning his attention back to Naroko. "Be here at 1430," he ordered. "We will see what you can learn. Forgive me for saying so, Rinar, but your apprentice would surely benefit from learning lightsaber combat from a teacher with a- humanoid body plan."

Rinar just hooted in amused agreement and bobbed her head. That had been something of a stumbling block in Naroko's training, though they'd gotten on alright.

She'd almost been hoping that Dooku would recommend a different teacher. While she liked the style, she wasn't entirely sold on his stiff manner. He reminded her of fine-tempered steel, the kind with blue ripples in its grain, stern and elegant and unyielding. He would not be an easy teacher.

But he was willing to teach, and Rinar had said he was an excellent swordsman. She would learn.

So she was there at the specified time, her lightsaber on her hip and a training blade in one hand. When Dooku and Qui-Gon arrived, she was stretching out and warming up her muscles.

Dooku she'd expected. Qui-Gon, she had not. They were both dressed for training, and spent several minutes doing their own warmups. She watched out of the corner of her eye, noting especially the way Dooku took care to stretch and loosen his wrists, and copied the exercises.

He said nothing when he spotted her doing this, just nodded. "Let us begin."

What followed was an intensive session of lightsaber forms. She struggled to keep up with the brisk pace Dooku set at first, enough that his commands of "Again," were almost a relief as they gave her another chance to try the motion again.

"This is what comes from learning lightsaber combat from a Krrisshk," he said critically, finally giving up on verbal commands to _stand up straight_ and coming over to sternly nudge her shoulders and hips back into the proper positions with a slender wooden rod he'd brought with him.

She'd been wondering what the rod was for. Dooku used it briskly, directing her body into the proper lines of the form without ever once touching her himself. Ears already bright red with embarrassment over the criticism of her posture, she was just as glad he was using the rod.

Even so, he was _merciless_ in his drilling. If any stance was incorrect, if her feet were wrong, a thrust or parry executed poorly, he made her do it again.

Before their allotted hour was up she was sweating, her hair plastered to her scalp. Her pale green training saber trembled a little in her grasp, and her muscles complained at being held in unaccustomed positions. As she tired, it became harder to hold the stances, to remember to stand up straight, to make her attacks and parries crisply. The rod prodded her arms and legs and shoulders again and again, and the furrow between Dooku's brows became deeper.

"Master," Qui-Gon finally interjected in his quiet voice. "I think she needs a break."

Naroko froze in her last stance, straining to hold it as she listened hard for Dooku's decision. Only then did she notice how hard it was to read his emotions. He was very tightly shielded and gave off almost nothing but a stoic watchfulness.

"Very well," he said, when she thought she was about to collapse from strain. "You may take a break, Padawan Chiston."

She let out a long breath and switched off her saber, slumping out of the stance. A flick of one hand and a touch of the Force called her water bottle to her, and she sipped carefully.

Qui-Gon was suddenly next to her. For such a big man, he could move extraordinarily quietly. At least she'd sensed him coming, unlike his former Master. "He drives all his students that hard," he said. "You're doing fine."

Naroko nodded and wiped her sleeve over her face to mop up the sweat trickling down it. "Yes, Master," she said. "Where's Obi-Wan?"

"Archives, of course."

"Of course." Where else would Obi-Wan be? He'd seem to taken to burrowing in the Archives as a refuge from his somewhat maverick Master. "Does he get lessons like this?"

Qui-Gon smiled wryly. "He is much more interested in Ataru," he said. "My Master does not care to teach uninterested students. He'd rather focus on those who want to learn what he has to teach."

"Well I want to learn this," she said, setting her chin stubbornly. "I just have bad habits to unlearn." Though she wasn't certain she liked the implication that her poor posture was somehow Master Rinar's fault. Neither of them could help the fact that one of them was human and the other was a birdlike saurian. "I can do this."

"You don't do a thing halfway, do you?" he asked.

She just looked at him, wiping a dribble of water from the corner of her mouth. "No," she said. "I don't. Never do."

"Good. You're going to need that determination if you intend to get far with Master Dooku."

"I'll learn as much as he's willing to teach." She paused, making a face. "I just- need to get used to the style, that's all."

"So you do." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You might consider joining Obi-Wan and I for our saber practice. He's studying Ataru as well."

She tilted her head a little, a gesture she'd acquired from her Master. That was certainly a tempting offer. Qui-Gon was widely known to be very skilled with Ataru- he almost had to be, given how difficult the form could be for someone as big as he was.  It would be worth learning from him, and it would come with the bonus of being able to spend time with Obi-Wan. She didn't get to see her friend all that much, given that his Master did a lot of field work and hers was more Temple-bound.

On the other hand, she had a fairly full schedule as it was. Healing was one of the most demanding of the specialties, especially if she wanted to be able to treat multiple species. She was already spending most of her free time studying as it was, and two extra lightsaber practices was going to cut in to what little she had left.

But...

Reservations about Dooku and the physical effort of learning an entirely new form aside, she was _liking_ learning Makashi, and she already loved learning Ataru. And she had the rare opportunity to have not one but _two_ Masters offering to teach her the forms they specialized in. How could she say no to that?

She'd make the time.

She nodded. "When do you two train, Master Qui-Gon?" she asked. Her heart sank a little when he named a time slot not half an hour after when she was to finish with Dooku.

_An hour of Ataru after an hour of Makashi, when I'm bound to be stiff, sore, and clumsy. At least Obi-Wan won't laugh if I fumble. Or fall flat on my face._

That was something, at least.

"I'll be there," she promised.

"Obi-Wan will be thrilled, I'm sure." Qui-Gon glanced up and nodded to Dooku. "Now back to work for you."

Naroko managed -just- not to wince and went back to meet the elder Master to continue their session.

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was inspired by a delightful post making the rounds of Tumblr discussing the lightsaber forms used by Obi-Wan Kenobi and the older members of his lineage. And watching that scene of Dooku dueling three Nightsisters in his pajamas and looking like a total boss. And realizing that Dooku has had like, six lightsaber apprentices and probably quite enjoyed teaching. So the result is a very stern and demanding Dooku passing down his favorite style to another apprentice, since apparently no one in his own lineage is at all drawn to it. 
> 
> Happy Star Wars Day!


End file.
